Too Sweet
by restingDendrophiliac
Summary: Francis loves Alfred, even with his lack of care in his diet. FrUS, basically smut, kind of. Maybe, I don't know. Another birthday gift for a friend. Also, foodplay.


Usually Alfred doesn't help with the whole "supper" situation on the nights he stays with Francis. Usually Alfred will sit in the living room and check his smart phone for scores of different games in the sport-of-the-season, and groan about most results but occasionally grin with pride that yes, that team one, and the other lost.

On some evenings when Francis indulges his boyfriend and gives in to let him help in the kitchen with savory dishes, Francis will nod and say the food is delicious when it comes time to sit down and eat. Which is not to say that the food prepared _doesn't_ taste satisfying, it's more so that after a few forkfuls Francis can already feel the fats and oils seep through his pores, or even worse, sink to gather at his middle. Alfred however, absorbs the food carelessly like an Olympic swimmer (which he certainly _is not_) and still has room for dessert afterwards.

Tonight is one of those evenings, and the American boy has prepared potatoes, asparagus, and two steaks, which are both much too large for Francis' taste. Francis is polite to take half of a grease-dripping steak, three stalks of oil-soaked asparagus, and a small scoop of potatoes. Alfred, however, takes as much as he pleases and talks in between bites about going ice-skating in Rockefeller Center before Christmas, and whose home, exactly, were they spending Christmas in?

When Alfred's plate is clean, Francis is still picking at his food thoughtfully. Alfred furrows his brow at him in concern from across the dining room table.

"Do you not like it?" Alfred asks, he hasn't even received an answer yet and he already has a look akin to that of a kicked puppy behind his square glasses. Francis takes small bite of steak, chews, and swallows before he responds.

"No, dear," Francis says, "I just like to taste my food before I digest it." Perhaps that way of saying it is a tad harsh, the Frank thinks, but he continues the statement. "That, and the food doesn't suit my middle as much as it suits yours." He punctuates with a final bite of asparagus, and Alfred pouts.

"I wish you wouldn't freaking tease me about that," Alfred grumbles, and it's ridiculously juvenile. He gathers his and Francis' dishes to put them in the sink for later, and then pops his head back through the doorway to ask about watching a movie. Francis complies.

The American insists they watch a Batman film, and Francis, who, frankly, doesn't feel like changing his boyfriend's mind, obliges. It isn't twenty minutes into the movie, and the two of them are comfortably snuggled together with a throw blanket and Alfred's left arm is draped over Francis, and Alfred gets up to go to the kitchen.

"Do you want to share a piece of cake, babe?" he hollers from the other room as Francis hears the crack of the refrigerator door opening, and he supposes sharing is better than he or Al eating an entire piece themselves, and says yes as the main antagonist of the film makes his first on-camera appearance.

Alfred walks in a few moments later with a piece of opulent-looking chocolate cake smothered in ganache upon a plate, and two forks. He sets his loot on the coffee table without ceremony, and Francis leans over to dip his finger in the ganache to taste. He licks the substance clean off, and its not until he's finished does he notice Alfred is eyeing him with what can be assumed as dumbfoundedness. But the younger man snaps out quickly and sticks a fork in the dessert to take a ridiculous-sized bite for himself, only to accidentally get some of it on the corner of his mouth like a child. Francis smiles and uses his hand to wipe it away, and then slowly licks said remnants off of his hand as Alfred watches in bewilderment.

They're playing a game now, Francis realises, a game where Francis does something exceptionally sexy and Alfred is internally conflicted about whether or not he should react. Francis is winning this game, and he asserts that by letting two of his fingers pick up more ganache, and he puts those fingers to Alfred's lips this time. He accepts them, gently encasing the digits in young, pink lips and tracing his tongue around them to lap up chocolate. The display makes Francis' face feel hot, and his legs fidget a little as he feels a somewhat uninvited guest twitch behind cloth barriers. The actors on screen are fighting, and its violent, but neither of the men off screen are paying attention to anything other than each other.

Francis collects more icing upon his fingers and this time smears it on the corner of Alfred's mouth, where smidgens of cake had collected moments earlier. He leans in, and presses his tongue to chocolate that has been painted over skin, and he traces it until there is nothing left but the spit-slicked flushed white of Alfred's corner-of-mouth and cheek. Only then does Francis wander to waiting lips and kiss tenderly and deep and sweet, and taste the decadence of cocoa.

Their tongues mingle almost too pleasantly as they map out each other's mouths like old world explorers. It's excellent, _lung-crushing_, is what Francis thinks. He crawls further up Alfred and takes a good hold on the back of his head to get better control and better access to his lover's mouth. Alfred whimpers when Francis does this, and how the other sucks on his tongue _just so_, because he and Francis both know that movements like that are something that send Alfred's blood directly south. The same effects apply to Francis when Alfred whimpers.

Francis soon finds himself straddling the splayed out legs of an American boy, and he has to stop the sensational necking momentarily to _Breathe, Francis, breathe. _He places his forehead on the arm of the couch beside Alfred's head and respires like he just ran from something terribly frightening. Alfred tenderly breathes in his ear, too, and lets the tip of his tongue graze the other man's earlobe only to lean forward and nibble the skin gently. Francis likes that, he does, and he voices his approval by pushing his hips down on Alfred's gingerly. Francis sits back up straight and puts more (albeit accidental) pressure on Alfred's half-hard cock, and he whines in a way that makes Francis' own length twitch even more so. Francis plucks off the younger man's glasses to put them next to the cake on the coffee table and taps Alfred's nose playfully.

"I'll be right back," the Frank informs as he dismounts his lover and pads feet on carpeted floor, "I want no clothes on when I get back." Alfred nods and squints at Francis' now blurred image.

"M'kay, babe," Alfred affirms, and begins to wiggle out of his jeans as Francis treads toward the bathroom to collect necessities. Francis pulls a dispenser of gel-like lube and a single condom from his medicine cabinet and takes his time walking back to the living room. He awkwardly discards of what clothing he can with one hand; first his belt, then he unbuttons his pants, and removes his t-shirt. When he returns to Alfred, he has done as he was ordered and his clothes are in a heap on the floor, and he is lying back against the arm of the couch- with his sex squeezed in a single hand. The boy has a look upon his face that looks like guilt, or something more similar to a child that has been caught sneaking sweets when he was told that there were no sweets allowed until after dinner.

"I was just trying to keep it up-" Alfred excuses, but the shade of red on his face from embarrassment says something else entirely.

"You glutton," Francis teases as he sets his equipment on the coffee table. He then slides onto the couch easily, and this time rests between his boyfriend's legs. "You couldn't have waited the few moments it took for me to go to the bathroom and back? You must be really worked up," Francis let his hips lightly grind against Alfred's naked erection, "And I had only been kissing you." Alfred winces and huffs as Francis blows on his lips to taunt.

"Don't play this game, Francis," Alfred says. It is voiced in a way that one could assume was threatening, but Francis knew Alfred wouldn't hurt a fly. The Frank reaches back to the table collects a very heavy amount of frosting on his fingers again, and slathers it on the younger man's chest generously; extending from above the collarbone down near his belly button. Alfred hisses at initial contact, as the substance is chilled against his heated skin. "What the hell are you even doing?" he snaps.

"I'm enjoying dessert," Francis responds, "You're so round and cute and sweet already, I could just eat you up." Francis declares this as he meets lips at Alfred's junction of neck and shoulder, where icing was smeared moments ago, and licks the area clean. He continues on, tonguing more space where chocolate was applied. Alfred subconsciously releases a few pleased _Mmmm_'s and _Aaahh_'s as the older man mouths at his skin with an incredibly intimate amount of softness.

"Shut up," Alfred growls between two noises as he presses his groin into Francis', "I'm not round." Francis shimmies lower on Alfred's torso and continues down his trail of chocolate, and reaches one of his sides. They are soft, like babies' skin, and Francis grins as he gently nips at it.

"Your sides beg to differ, dear," Francis comments, and rolls his tongue back to the centre of Alfred's abdomen, and down to his belly button.

"Shut up, you don't hear me judging how flabby your _ass_ is," Alfred retorts, and Francis looks up at him, appearing mildly hurt.

"_Flabby_, dear?"Alfred shakes his head.

"I'm kidding, baby, can you get going?" The American nudges his hips to clarify, and Francis wrinkles his nose. He mumbles something about lack of patience and how Alfred doesn't deserve this into pudged, tan skin as he gives Alfred wet and chocolatey kisses on his stomach until most of the sweet is cleaned off. Alfred, in the meantime, bites his finger to keep from making embarrassing and breathy noises at the arousing hot-to-cool feeling of saliva and tongue on smooth skin. Francis doesn't bother mentioning the muffling and persists in descending to Alfred's crotch, and glances up toward the younger man's flushed face when he begins smooth and gentle strokes on his cock with a single hand. He lets his mouth go lower, and he softly rolls Alfred's balls just past his lips, and allows to mouth to wander to pliable inner thighs to kiss and bite as well.

The younger blonde man is holding composure, barely, as he is biting down on his finger painfully hard while Francis quickens his even strokes. Back and forth, back and forth, until Francis removes his hand, and Alfred takes his finger out of his mouth.

"Francis," Alfred almost whines, "If you're planning on teasing me more, I swear you have another thing coming." Alfred squints at the bearded man's fuzzy form, to vaguely see he is worming out of his pants and underwear. Alfred takes a breath of realisation, and Francis smirks knowingly as he discards the articles of clothing on the ground.

"You need not worry, sweetheart," Francis says while he leans over to squirt some lubricant in his palm. He rubs it between his hands to warm it, and both of his hands glisten, oily. He rubs his slicked left hand up and down Alfred's pleading erection in a few easy yet sloppy (what can you expect from a right-handed man?) strokes to get lubricant off, and then uses his now drier hand to swiftly pump his member back to a more lively state. Alfred sits and waits, and watches Francis as he sillily takes the condom wrapper in his goofy grin to rip the packaging. Alfred laughs and closes his eyes, because it's funny, Francis is like that sometimes.

He loves that, Alfred thinks, he loves how humourous and relaxed Francis behaves around him, compared to other peers who look down upon him like a peasant. He loves that Francis is his best friend. He loves that Francis teases him about his weight, despite his reactions, because it lets him know Francis thinks even the qualities Alfred thinks are negative are fantastic. He loves Francis. Yes, that was a better way to say that. Alfred loves Francis.

Alfred is brought back to reality when he feels a tap of a finger on his nose. Francis is right back in place between his legs, with a rubber over his own sex, and the older man is smiling again.

"Thinking about something dear?" Francis asks. Alfred shrugs.

"A little, but its not too important," Alfred lies, and Francis gently traces and presses wet fingers on the small stretch of skin between his scrotum and entrance. Alfred quivers at the sudden spark of feeling.

"If you insist," Francis hums, and he trails his slicked fingers down to one of Alfred's most intimate places and leaves a path of lube in their wake, then presses a cautious fingertip in. He lazily kisses the crook of Alfred's square jaw when the younger man gasps, and slowly presses the finger farther in, joint by joint. Alfred wiggles in minor discomfort, because no matter how many times Francis makes love to him he will always feel strange in the beginning. Francis moves his digit in and out of Alfred's entrance, putting pressure in random spots on inner walls to experiment before he inserts a second finger alongside the first to do the exact same. Alfred winces at the extra stretch but pays little mind and keeps his legs spread.

Alfred isn't very enthusiastic as Francis fingers him, he generally doesn't take much pleasure in being submissive in sex, because being in a true position of power over someone else really gets him going. But he can feel Francis only just _graze_ a place inside him when he's using three fingers, and Alfred's breath hitches and his hips twitch. He whines, because he pushes against Francis' fingers in a rush of heated lust and they can't reach, he feels only the tips of them tease him in the most frustrating of ways. The spectacle is one that makes Francis' loins ache, and he quirks an eyebrow.

"Ready, dear?" Francis asks to clarify, and the American nods eagerly. Francis follows with pulling his fingers out and pumping more lube into his hand to spread over his latex-clad cock with a few jerks, but not enough to get sidetracked. Alfred squirms in anticipation, and Francis guides his length to his opening and teases by purposefully gliding the tip just across the surface without breaching.

"God damn you, Fran-," is all Alfred can say before he sucks in air in surprise. Francis inside him, if only a little bit, and Alfred is more than pleased, but yet also discomforted by being stretched just a little more. It isn't painful, mainly because his lover has brought a hand up idly to stroke his proudly-standing organ as he's being intruded, and lack of comfort fades soon enough as Francis' hips meet Alfred's thighs.

Francis leans down and has to bite Alfred's shoulder to hold himself, because this feeling of too-tight heat around him makes him question any doubts he ever had about an existence of God or heaven. Because the feeling of clenching wet warmth makes him faithful, and perhaps that makes him a blasphemer, but Francis doesn't care. His mind is too focused on when he can selfishly pound into Alfred's soft and loving body. When the younger boy begins to shift beneath him, only then does Francis remove his mouth from the other's shoulder and languidly pull out far enough to push back in and repeat.

The two create rhythm, one where Alfred rolls his hips to meet Francis' deliberate drives into his body. It's fantastic, they both think, and kisses shared are hot with passion and sweet with love and chocolate. They both become lost in a couchbound lovemaking session that makes wooden framework and springs creak in protest to eager thrusts that hit in exactly the right places.

Alfred loosens and refrains from biting his hand, now, and tells Francis _Yes that's good _or_ keep going _and once a _Slow down you freaking horndog or I'll come and I won't do jack shit to help you. _Francis appreciates the input, especially when Alfred's breathy chants of _Francis, Francis, Francis, fuck _become more relevant and the younger man comes on a loosely stroking hand and shivers as the last of his energy is milked out. The clench of Alfred's orgasm around Francis is almost too much, but not enough, and the elder man desperately thrusts for a few more minutes before he is greeted by the sweet heat of release.

Francis pulls out and ties off his condom to take to a wastebasket in a neighbouring room, only to return to Alfred, sitting still naked with the addition of glasses perched on his nose, watching the movie that had never ceased playing but brought little distraction to either of them. Alfred also has the plate of cake in his hand, and he takes a bite as Francis leans over to gather his clothes to put in the laundry hamper.

"Clean yourself up, you barbarian," Francis comments, tossing his shirt and underpants at him, and Alfred grins.

"Sure thing, babe," he says, "Love you."

"I love you too, Alfred."


End file.
